


Taking Care

by Llama



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Community: lewis_challenge, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 18:37:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Llama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robbie Lewis was used to dealing with difficult situations. They just didn't normally ambush him while he was in his pyjamas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Care

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sasha1600 for the [Lewis Challenge](http://lewis-challenge.livejournal.com/) Christmas Exchange 2012.

In his line of work, Robbie Lewis was used to dealing with difficult situations. Usually they arose in an orderly fashion, with a phone call, or an official request for a senior officer. Sometimes they landed in his lap; sometimes messily, often inconveniently, and on one memorable occasion, literally.

One thing they didn't normally do was ambush him in the middle of the night while he was in his pyjamas.

"Careful with that!" he called out. The fireman gave him a thumbs up, and leaned the photo frame up against the wall. 

"Sir…" 

He shook Hathaway's hand off his arm. "Our Lyn gave me that last Christmas," he said. 

"We should go," Hathaway said. "There's nothing more we can do here, and Hodges has already asked us to leave twice. You need to let him get on with the investigation."

"I know, I know. Must be three in the morning by now, anyway.”

“Almost,” Hathaway said. He looked clean and neat as always; too clean amongst all the mess. 

“But this is me home," Lewis said. He rubbed a sooty hand over his cheek. "He can't just—"

"He can," Hathaway said. "You can't stay here."

Lewis took one more look around the ruins of his living room. He wasn't wrong. "Right. Drop me at that B&B over on Watkins Lane, then," he sighed. 

Hathaway shook his head. "No need for that."

Somehow, not two minutes after he got into the car, they were at the other end of the ten minute drive to Hathaway's flat.

"This is daft." Lewis stayed at the bottom of the steps while Hathaway bounded up to the front door. "You don't even have a spare room." He couldn't summon up much more of a protest however. Somewhere on the other side of that door was a bed, or at least a sofa. Surely to god there was a sofa. He was weary, suddenly, and if he couldn't have his own bed then a sofa would do very nicely.

"Not a problem, sir." The lights were bright inside, Hathaway a shadowy guardian angel haloed by it. He was conscious of a curtain twitching in the building to the right, and his bare feet on the pavement, his thin pyjamas doing nothing to keep the chill away from his legs below the level of the coat someone — Jim? — had put round his shoulders.

“The sofa will be fine,” he said, more than once, because there was a point halfway up the stairs where he didn't think his legs were going to make it to the top. Thank god for stubborn youngsters who wouldn't take no for an answer, though. The bed was really, really comfortable.

Heaven.

"I won't sleep," he said, closing his eyes just because the light from the doorway was too bright. "I'll just—"

* * *

It was winter afternoon dark when Lewis opened his eyes again. No, not _dark_ , really, just dim with the drawn blinds blocking out most of the pale sunlight. Just enough light peeked through for him to see the godawful mess he'd made of the bed.

“Oh, bloody _hell_.” He'd climbed into bed and— what? Gone straight to sleep. He hadn't even given a thought to the state he was in, smeared with soot and grime. First he needed a shower, and then he was going to have to sort out getting the bedding washed and changed.

The flat felt empty when he stepped out of the bedroom. It was hard to tell sometimes with flats, and Lewis still wasn't used to it yet after so long living in a semi-detached, but usually any confusion arose the other way around. The presence of other people in the building, sharing the same four walls, could make a place seem less empty. 

Not always less lonely, however. 

“James!” he called out. And a bit louder: “Jim?”

Silence. Was it a work day? He had a vague idea it might be Sunday — it _felt_ like a Sunday — but he wasn't sure. And that did it: he really needed a shower. Or a bath, but a shower would get this muck off him more efficiently. He could do with hot water to clear the fog out of his head, anyway... and then maybe a nice cup of tea.

The bathroom door was ajar, and there was a neat pile of stuff on the floor outside the bedroom that Lewis was going to assume had been left for him to use. Towels and a dressing gown, as it turned out, and it was only when he shook the dark blue towelling robe out that it struck Lewis he didn't have any clothes with him. The pyjamas he was wearing were filthy, and might never be clean again even if they weren't torn, which he rather thought they were.

There was toothpaste in a glass holder, and he reckoned he could use his finger well enough to pass for now— once he had clean fingers, anyway. Shampoo and shower gel he found in the cubicle, though there wasn't a huge amount left of either. He was going to take some cleaning up, and it'd be a poor guest who used it all, though it seemed Hathaway had already showered today from the spots of water on the glass screen. The shelf didn't hold any alternative toiletries, and the bathroom cabinet only turned up some expensive-looking bottles. Unwanted gifts? Some had been used up, but not much. Lewis unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. Definitely for men, but a bit overpowering for his tastes. For Hathaway's too, if he wasn't mistaken.

A gift then. From someone who didn't know him too well. Or left by another guest.

Did Hathaway ever _have_ other guests?

 _You're not investigating him_ , he reminded himself, and stripped off his pyjamas. He could see a few bruises on his legs, probably from helping old Mrs Carmody down the stairs. She was a demon with her walking stick at the best of times, and a fire breaking out in the building certainly wasn't one of those. 

Long days at the station and the ridiculous hours of overtime he put in when they were on a case meant Lewis was more than appreciative of the relaxation properties of a hot bath or shower. The hot water felt as good as he hoped on his bruises, and on his head, which still felt heavy, sluggish and too full of soot. He didn't think he had enough hair to hold all the dirt that seemed to be streaming down from it, so maybe his mam had been right, and tipping his ears up into the water did wash what was between them. 

He'd give anything for her to wash his hair for him right now. Or Val. She used to sit on the side of the bath sometimes and help him scrub the day out of his hair, rub the tension he'd accumulated from his shoulders. It was little things like that you missed when you didn't have them any more.

Hot water would have to do, and his own fingers working the shampoo in. His arms ached, but once he was clean there could be tea, and maybe some breakfast. Lunch? 

No, breakfast. It was Sunday, he was sure, now that his head was clearing a little. Everyone knew it was okay to eat breakfast as late as you wanted on a Sunday. 

“Sir?” Lewis thought he heard Hathaway's voice, but he had to turn the shower off to be sure. Squinting, he could see the door was open a crack, letting some of the steam clear from the room.

He must have been under the shower longer than he thought. 

“I've brought you some things you might need,” Hathaway said. “I'll just leave them outside.” 

Lewis snorted. The drops of water that fell off his nose were still greyish, he noticed with dismay. “Come on in, man,” he sighed. “I'm too old to worry about modesty, and it's your bathroom.” 

He doubted his modesty would even be in question with the water-speckled shower screen and all the steam, but god knew he was better friends with his sergeant than with any of the other people he'd ever shared communal shower rooms with, and that had never been a problem.

He could only tell Hathaway was doing as he asked by the way the steam cleared from that area of the room.

“There's a toothbrush, and toothpaste that I think is your brand. They didn't have anything that looked like the shampoo you use, so I just bought some that the assistant assured me has a mild but very manly scent.”

Lewis couldn't help smiling at that. “Mild but manly, eh?” 

“Thought it sounded just like you, Sir,” Hathaway said, sounding far too pleased with himself. 

“Robbie, please.” Lewis could see traces of soot still clinging to hairs on his chest, and he didn't dare look much further than that. “Don't suppose you picked up a sponge or anything I could use? Getting this stuff off is—”

“I have—” Hathaway started, and Lewis saw him loom through the clearing steam with something in his hand. “Um, do you want me to—” He stopped, apparently not sure what to suggest.

Lewis cracked the shower cubicle door open. Hathaway was standing inches away, his eyes fixed on a spot somewhere above Lewis's head. His hand was raised as if he had been going to drop the sponge over the top of the cubicle. He was certainly tall enough to do that easily.

“No need,” Lewis said, awkwardly, and took it from his hand. Hathaway's eyes dropped to his face, his expression as carefully blank as Lewis had ever seen it. Maybe he should have let Hathaway go with his first plan.

“I won't be much longer,” he added, and Hathaway nodded. Lewis reached for the shower dial again. The next time he glanced back at the door, there was no sign of Hathaway.

* * *

“Hughes says they're pretty sure it was just an electrical fault,” Hathaway said. He slid the wardrobe door open and pursed his lips at the row of shirts inside. Lewis kept himself busy wrestling the duvet out of its soot-streaked cover.

“In my flat?” He bundled the cover up into a laundry bag and tackled the pillowcases. 

“Upstairs.” Hathaway pulled a couple of shirts out. Lewis was relieved to see neither of them was pink, or any of his sergeants other more adventurous shades. He didn't know much about colours, but he was damn sure he wouldn't be able to pull any of those off. “A Mr Cobbe?”

“Oh, for—” Lewis shook his head. “I _told_ him that electrician he had in was a crook.”

“If only he'd listened to you, Sir.” Hathaway handed over a white shirt that was going to be far too long for him. 

“What, like you do, you mean?” Lewis wasn't sure if he should wait for Hathaway to turn around, or even ask him to. He was still only wearing the towelling robe, and Hathaway had a disconcerting habit of ignoring conventional manners when it suited him. Lewis had always liked that about him. Oh, what the hell. He put the shirt on the bed and slid the robe off, avoiding Hathaway's eyes until he had the shirt buttoned up. It was indeed too long, but that was no bad thing in the current circumstances.

“I listen,”Hathaway said, his voice mild. 

“And then you ignore me,” Lewis grumbled, rolling up a shirt sleeve with one hand. 

“Not always.” Hathaway stepped forward, and his fingers were warm on Lewis's wrist. “Let me,” he said, and unrolled the sleeve. He turned it up neatly far enough for the sleeve to stay put, then he turned to the other one. His hands were very gentle, and the motion of them was soothing.

“I took the liberty of getting you some emergency underwear,” Hathaway said, moving towards the door. “It's in the bag with the toiletries. We can go shopping this afternoon for proper clothes, if you want.”

“I'll need—” Lewis started, but Hathaway just smiled. It was one of his odd smiles; something more was going on here. 

“Pair of jeans on the chair,” he said lightly, and left Lewis alone to finish dressing.

Yes, something was definitely going on. By the time he was vaguely presentable, Lewis thought he'd worked out what it was.

“Your jeans wouldn't fit me,” he said. He didn't intend it to sound like an accusation, but he thought it might have come out that way. “These aren't yours.”

“You should be a detective,” Hathaway said, and held up a couple of leaflets. “Indian or Chinese?”

* * *

There were other things, when Lewis looked more closely. The half-used packet of teabags in the cupboard, when the tea caddy was full of real tea. The watch he found in the bedside table, right at the back of the drawer. A couple of books on the shelves that he'd bet anything he still owned hadn't been bought by Hathaway. They were certainly... educational. Informative. Eye-opening, even.

Maybe James could get into some of the positions the men in the pictures had managed, he thought, turning one upside down. But he wasn't sure he could, not these days.

So, from the evidence available to him, Lewis had to deduce that Hathaway had, or used to have, some sort of relationship with a man. A relationship that involved keeping some clothes and personal items at Hathaway's flat, as well as favourite items like shampoo and teabags.

Add in a surprising reluctance to do unscheduled overtime in recent months, and Hathaway's latest relapse back to smoker, and it wasn't hard to piece together.

The thing was: it wouldn't have been all that hard to hide, either.

“Who was he?” Lewis asked later, when they were full of spicy lamb and red wine, music soft and soothing wafting over them from the late night TV show they weren't watching. He might not have asked, but he was wearing Hathaway's shirt and his hair smelled of Hathaway's shampoo. He wasn't sure why that made a difference, but somehow it did. 

He half expected Hathaway to excuse himself for a smoke, but he didn't. He let his head fall back against the sofa instead, long neck pale and vulnerable in the lamplight. 

“Kenneth,” Hathaway said eventually. “His name was Kenneth. I met him at the Bach Society evening back in March, and something just— I don't know. Sparked.”

Lewis swallowed. That was more than he'd hoped for. It could be hard work getting a straight answer out of Hathaway about anything personal.

“I'm assuming it didn't—”

“No,” Hathaway lifted his head up and wriggled his limbs into a more comfortable position on the sofa. “It didn't work out. And it didn't end well.”

That would account for the incomplete clear out of personal items, Lewis supposed. Not that he was an expert. It hadn't been much of an issue in his day. 

“You youngsters don't take enough time to get to know each other,” he said. “Me and Val were friends first, and look how we lasted. She always said that was why.”

“I'll bear that in mind next time.” Hathaway's voice was dry, but there was an undertone of “See, I do listen,” in there if you knew how to spot it. “What do you think she would have made of me?”

 _She'd have been tickled to death_ , Lewis thought. _And exasperated, and fond, and sometimes despairing._ “She'd have loved you,” was what he said, though, and that was true as well. He frowned. “She'd probably have tried to adopt you.”

Hathaway didn't say anything else after that, just listened to the low hum of music until Lewis made his excuses and went to bed.

* * *

He wasn't sure what time it was, but Lewis was wide awake again and there was someone in the bedroom. Not a burly fireman this time making alien hand gestures through the smoke, but a silent, solid presence somewhere near the door.

Lewis breathed. In. Out. In. Out.

“James?” he said tentatively, though if it was anyone else he was probably in a lot of trouble. 

“What about you?” It wasn't what Lewis had half expected to hear, but he knew it was silly to feel... what? Disappointed?

Stupid.

“Would you want to adopt me?” That was a weird question. He wondered how much more wine Hathaway had knocked back since he left him with the TV. 

Hathaway didn't get personal unless it was really important though, so he gave it proper consideration.

“If that was what you wanted, then... yes.” Lewis struggled with the duvet until he could sit up. “Be a bit weird, though.”

“Why?” Hathaway asked quickly, and Lewis wished he could see the man's face. He was feeling his way here, and some clues would have been handy.

“Because I don't feel very fatherly towards you,” he said in the end, because it was true. “You're my _friend_. And if I was twenty years younger, then maybe—”

Lewis stopped, because he'd never really dared put that into words before. Putting thoughts into words sometimes made them less true; holding things up to the light was a sure way to reveal the flaws, after all. And this wasn't a good time to start anything, was it? Not when he was temporarily homeless, and should be worrying about the state of his flat and his possessions, not his love life, for god's sake.

The flat and the possessions, he realised, apart from a few odd things, just weren't that important.

He reached out for the bedside lamp, and clicked it on just as the side of the bed dipped. Hathaway was still fully dressed, and just sitting there looking at his hands. 

“I didn't think we'd ever talk about this,” Lewis said. The lamp wasn't too bright, and the rest of the room was gloomy, barely visible outside the tiny circle of light that contained two men and one bed.

“Me neither.” The edges of Hathaway's mouth twitched.

“I'm not sure what to say now,” Lewis admitted, but Hathaway seemed to have other plans in any case. He'd never kissed — been kissed by, he supposed really — a man, not on the lips, but there didn't seem to be any particular difference in doing so. He'd considered what it would be like to kiss someone new, kiss them properly, and he'd assumed it would be odd after so long. Surprisingly, it wasn't. It was soft lips, and breath, and a familiar (shared, even, right now) scent of fresh shampoo. It was caring, and being taken care of, and so much more besides.

The bed he was in, the pillows Hathaway pushed him down into so gently, he had because Hathaway had taken him into his home. The new pyjamas that were being slowly unbuttoned, he had because Hathaway had fed him and clothed him and taken him shopping. 

That wasn't why Lewis kissed him back. He kissed him back in part because James Hathaway was the sort of man who would do all that without expecting anything in return, certainly. Mostly though, it was simply because he _wanted to_.

“Is this all right?” Hathaway murmured, his hands on Lewis's shoulders.

Lewis pushed the duvet aside. “What do you think?” he said, and reached up as Hathaway climbed over his legs to join him. 

“I think I've had too much wine,” he confessed, when Hathaway was pressed up against him. “The spirit's more than willing, mind, so you never know.” Not that he thought Hathaway was expecting any of the acrobatics from those educational books of his, or anything, but still.

“Not worried,” Hathaway said. “This is nice.”

It was. A warm body to hold was something he'd been missing for a long time now. It was different helping to remove a shirt to find a flat, pale chest underneath, but not in a bad way. By the time their fingers tangled together on the zip of Hathaway's jeans, there was nothing strange about it at all.

“You don't need to,” Hathaway said, but Lewis was having none of that. 

“You've been taking good care of me,” he said, holding Hathaway's gaze as he slid his hand down inside his jeans. “Now you can let me do the same.”

It didn't take very long before Hathaway gasped and bit his lip, spilling all over Lewis's hand. He helped Hathaway wriggle out of his jeans, and they kissed until Lewis found that the flesh could be surprisingly co-operative with enough patience.

Afterwards should have been when all the doubts started to creep in. They wouldn't have been unexpected, just unwelcome. But Hathaway's arm was around him, relaxed and lazy, and Lewis found himself unable to give voice to even the most obvious and sensible objections that other people were bound to throw at them.

The thing was, James was a clever lad. Other colleagues might tease him about his poetry and the whole graduate entry scheme nonsense, but they didn't know the half of it. He already knew all the reasons why they shouldn't do this. And, Lewis realised, he'd said enough, in all the conversations over the last few years where they _hadn't_ talked about this, to make them non-issues. 

It would cause problems at work? They both had plenty of other options. The age difference? Ha. There was nobody with an older soul than James Hathaway. 

The only thing Lewis hadn't been completely sure of, Hathaway had taken care to let him know, in his own strange little way. The watch, the teabags, even the—

“ _You_ bought those books, didn't you?” he said. It was rather indistinct, because he didn't plan to detach himself from Hathaway's shoulder any time soon. It was a very comfy shoulder for such a devious little bugger. He couldn't believe he had almost been fooled so easily.

“I knew you'd get there in the end,” Hathaway yawned, pulling him even closer.


End file.
